The Ghost of the Past
by TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist
Summary: Sherlock remembers his childhood after the death of his father. Not related to my other story, The Importance of Family. Rated T for later chapters.
1. Prologue

The man looked down at his father's body and sighed. He had been a distinguished man. Not the best father, but not the worst. It was a shame to see the world deprived of the knowledge that the dead man had possessed. He knew so much, had even, at one point, offered to homeschool his son because of bullies, how they treated the son because he was different. The detective nodded to the policeman. "Yes, that's him." He made it short, was able to ignore is feelings, at least until after he swept out of the room. The policeman that the man had been talking to looked shocked. Normally when people were called in to identify bodies, they cried, screamed, wailed, any show of emotion at all. But this tall, thin man barely gave a second glance, at least on the outside.

On the inside, Sherlock Holmes was sad. His father, Thomas Holmes, was dead. True, they didn't have the best of relationships, but it was enough that neither tried to kill the other. There were no thoughts of death until the older man was mugged in an alley, beaten almost beyond recognition. A son knows his father, though, and it was not difficult for Sherlock Holmes, the famous web detective, to see that the great man was now just another body, another victim.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it!**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Please enjoy this chapter! Sherlock is age 13. ****Sorry if there are many mistakes, point them out to me and I'll fix them. Enjoy! **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, it's very sad. 

Thomas Holmes paced about the room, agitated. "For the last time, Sherlock, you are not a detective!" Why couldn't at least one of his sons be normal? Mycroft was secretive, always locked up in his room, while Sherlock pretended to be a detective! "Most boys your age have friends!" Sherlock mumbled something. Thomas sighed. "Speak up, boy!"

Sherlock looked up, his green-gray-blue eyes unnerving. "I said, most boys my age aren't freaks! Everyone else is normal! They have normal lives! Everybody calls me a freak, so nobody wants to be friends with me! I bet you can't understand me, though, Professor. Too busy listening to 'great minds' to listen to your own son!" Thomas' eyes grew cold. "How dare you talk to me in that way! I am your father! I deserve respect-no, I demand it!" Without thinking, Thomas slapped the boy. Hard. Sherlock, the spitting image of his mother, had gotten at least one thing from his father. His spirit, his unwillingness to give in. "How dare I? How dare you? You hit me, your own son, and you have the audacity to tell me that you deserve respect?" Sherlock paused for a moment, then continued, his voice mocking. "Oh wait. I forgot. You don't deserve respect, oh no. You demand it. You demand things because you can't ever deserve them!" Sherlock received yet another slap, this time harder, but he didn't stop. "You won't-no, can't-ever deserve things because you never work for them! You just sit around demanding things, acting like a king, with one difference. Kings make their subjects feel loyal. I bet every single one of your students loathes you!"

His speech done, Sherlock waited. He didn't have to wait long. There was a beat pulsing in Thomas' ear, a beat that signified his anger. Soon Sherlock was on the floor, his hands over his head as blows rained down on him. He protected himself as his father dealt justice.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock woke up and grimaced. He had bruises covering him from his collarbone to his toes. Luckily, his head was spared. He dressed in a long sleeved shirt (a dress shirt) and jeans despite the heat of the day. He could take no chances. That had been the first time that his father had beaten him, and even though they often butted heads, Sherlock loved his father, and would not allow him to be taken away.

Sherlock entered the kitchen quietly, but it did no good. His mother saw that he was moving stiffly, and she had heard the yelling the past night. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. She glanced at him, then looked away, worried. "Sherlock, do you want to stay home from school today?" she asked. He shook his head, curls bouncing every which way. "No, Mother. I'll be fine." She sighed, still worried, then put breakfast, burnt toast, onto a plate for the boys. Mycroft and Sherlock ate fast, then hurried out the door so they wouldn't miss the bus to that miserable place called school.

**A/N: I think that this is the longest chapter I have ever written. Thanks for reading this, guys. It already has 14 views, which I think is amazing since I uploaded a short prologue earlier today. Review please!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: So sorry it's been so long, this one is kind of hard to write cause I have to make Sherlock feel emotions. Anyways, please enjoy! Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Sherlock sat alone on the bus, as Mycroft sat up front, the perfect student. His acquaintance, Anthea (Sherlock didn't think Mycroft was capable of having friends), sat next to him, on her Blackberry doing who knows what.

Sherlock was not a grade-A student. In fact, he was currently flunking chemistry, because even though chemistry was super-freaking-awesome, the teacher never let them do any labs. Sherlock was constantly bored, and it didn't help that the teacher ignored him.

As he was thinking, his friend John Watson came to sit beside him. As always, he was quick to notice things others would just dismiss as quirks. "Why are you wearing long sleeves? It's a thousand degrees outside." Sherlock muttered something incomprehensible. "What? Sorry, I don't speak mumble." Sherlock couldn't help but smile. John could make anything funny. "I said it doesn't matter." John nodded, unbelieving. "Uh-huh. So this-" he yanked the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt up, revealing a yellow bruise on his wrist in the shape of a hand. "This doesn't matter? You look like a lemon. Seriously. Is there anything you want to tell me?" Sherlock shook his head, then gave in as John raised an eyebrow. "Fine! I got in a fight, OK? Don't make a big fuss out of it." John's eyebrow crawled higher. "So I'm expected to believe that you just let them hit you? That they hit you so many times you're wearing a long sleeved shirt? I'm assuming that it's multiple people, if one held you and another beat you up. Come on, Sherlock, I'm not a genius like you but I know more than Anderson."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously. Everybody knows more than Anderson. He has only one brain cell, and even that's dying." John glared at him. "Come on, Sherlock! Was it Mycroft?" Sherlock looked disbelieving. "Seriously, you think Mycroft could do this? Look at him, sitting on his fat arse in the front, doing nothing." Mycroft could hear his name, and he stiffened. Sherlock almost laughed. Almost. "Fine, was it your uncle? I know he was at your house over the weekend, there was a big deal about the prime minister coming here." He continued as Sherlock shook his head. Fortunately he knew how to keep his voice down. "Your dad?" Sherlock was a great liar, but he hesitated a little before answering. "No, of course not." John had seen the hesitation though. "Your dad? Why? Come on, you can tell me." Sherlock knew when he had lost, yet he refused to give up. "I told you, I got in a fight." John snorted. "With what, your dad's fist?" Sherlock looked desperate, but he persisted. "No! Just lay off, John!"

John looked at him. "Either you tell me straight up, or I tell somebody else." His voice was dangerously low, his eyes warning Sherlock. The latter finally gave in. "I spoke my mind." Sherlock's voice was so low John had to lean in to hear him. "He didn't like it, and well, you can guess the rest." John could guess the rest. Thomas Holmes had gotten bored, and had decided to take it out on his younger son.

**A/N: That concludes chapter two! I think next time will skip ahead a little bit, and won't be so dark. Also, I've decided that it will be best to make each time frame two chapters long, unless it's being incredibly difficult. Till next time!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Duo for pointing out my mistake!**

**A/N: Hello dearies! I'm back! Did you miss me? I bring a gift... It's a new chapter! So, about this chapter... It's not like Dad-beating-Sherlock dark, it's just other dark. Oops. Oh yeah, and Sherlock's like 15 or 16. I'll tell you at the end of the chapter. Disclaimer: I am only a teenager, I doubt I could even own one one-hundredth of Sherlock, let alone all of it.**

Sherlock walked quickly to his last class. Only 50 more minutes of boring to slog through before he could escape to home. He slipped into Chemistry just as the bell rang, not late. He sat down with only a half-sigh. It was, after all, science.

* * *

The last bell of the day rung, and Sherlock was ready. He quickly walked out of class and into the traffic jam that was the highway. Normally he would wait for John, but John had been home sick with the flu for a week. That was one week of hell for Sherlock. The three reasons why came sauntering up just as Sherlock closed his locker. He sighed, rubbing his arm, where a week-old bruise was fading.

The leader of the three spoke up. "Oh, look! It's freak! Poor little Sherlock, all alone with no friends. Aww." Sherlock ground his teeth together and looked bored. "Must we do this again? It is getting quite tedious. Now, excuse me, I need to get home." Sherlock tried to push his way past, but all three were bigger than he was. Of course, it wasn't very hard to be bigger than a skinny boy only five feet and 2 inches tall.

The leader smirked. "Going somewhere?" He motioned to his cronies, and they grabbed Sherlock, taking great care to be as rough as possible. The other people in the hallway cleared. They didn't want to be beaten up as well. John would have helped Sherlock. John didn't care about his own well-being.

The two henchmen dragged Sherlock behind one of the buildings and dumped him on the ground. The leader smirked again. "Now then, shall we begin?"

* * *

Sherlock limped home half an hour late, an impressive array of bruises everywhere on his body, along with a sprained wrist that hurt like hell. He did his best to hide it, though it was hard to cover up two black eyes and a lip split in three places. He walked in to dinner, and no one said a word.

After dinner, Sherlock got up slowly, taking care to avoid using his left wrist. Thomas Holmes also stood up. When Sherlock left the room, Thomas followed him. In the hallway, Sherlock turned around. "Can you come to my study in half an hour, Sherlock? It's important." Thomas kept his voice low. Sherlock sighed and nodded. It wouldn't be that bad.

* * *

Half and hour later, on the dot, Sherlock entered his father's study. "You wanted to see me, sir?" Thomas frowned, displaying more emotion than he had in weeks. "Sir? You make me feel old!" He glanced at Sherlock's face, which had not changed. "Sherlock, I was wondering if you wanted to be home schooled. I'm not stupid, you know. I know about those bullies and I think you should stay away from them -and yes, I know how hard that is. That's why I'm offering." Sherlock looked at his father in surprise. He shook his head, then explained why. "No, it's fine. John will be back soon." Thomas smiled. "OK, then. That's all I needed to hear. Now go get your homework done."

**A/N: That went better than expected... I hope you liked it. Sherlock was 15. Please let me know what you think below, and feel free to check out my other stories! Oh yeah, I just self-promoted.**


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